


Mercy for the wicked

by Tasmira



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Credence Barebone Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Good Original Percival Graves, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recovery, Redemption, Slow Burn, can be read as either platonic or romantic, somewhat - things are never black and white
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasmira/pseuds/Tasmira
Summary: Credence Barebone survives, help finds him.Percival Graves has issues, he finds help.Or a self-indulgent fix of painkillers, forgiveness and people and relationships repairing themselves.





	1. After New York

Though he was wholly unable to move, he had adopted a family of rats. Rather – they had adopted him. At first, he had thought they wanted to eat him, maybe even while he was still alive. The hull of the boat growled and creaked, metal torn by the all-powerful saltwater. The rats squeaked and whined around him, sniffing curiously at his flickering form. Credence sometimes worried that he would dissipate into the black cloud of a house fire and never live again, not even leave a corpse for the rats to chew on, though most of his thoughts focused on pain. He could barely think about anything else, it overwhelmed his senses to the point he thought he had seen the rats's eyes to glow a sickly white and their teeth to shine in the dark. Scampering bodies made of diseased hunger, waiting for his death.

Only, the rodents did no such thing. Instead, he one day woke up from one of his frequent lapses of unconsciousness to a small pile of stale breadcrumbs. His body was disrupted, ever-changing, so he waited until he had the semblance of a mouth to lick it off the rust, tasting blood on his tongue, though he was unsure whether that was the metal or his own blood. Time was impossible to keep track off and he found himself doubting its very existence. How long had he been on that boat? Hours? Days? Weeks? Mere minutes? Pain was all that mattered. He might as well have been stuck in a time loop. Had he been lucid, he would have guessed that not dying of dehydration was a hint. But drought was less a fact than it was a feeling. When he was not hurting so much that he was blind to everything else, he was made of thirst. Water, water, he needed water.   
It appeared after yet another loss of consciousness, in the form of a puddle one or two feet away from what was left of him. He had been forced to take notice of it, by a rat screeching madly at him. Dragging himself to it must have been a nightmare, but his memory of it washed away as he opened his eyes again hours later, not remembering closing them, his head laying in the warm water. He had some up his nose and he painfully coughed it off. He passed out again.

He woke up to sharp pain in his little finger. He thought a lot of time had passed, but could not be sure. Mismatched bite-sized bits of unidentified food were soaking in the puddle. A rat was latched on his finger to the point it had drawn blood. His hand twitched and the rat looked up, squeaking once then scampering around his deadweight of a body. Credence ate the tasteless, mushy and probably half-rotten food and drank the water, careful not to choke. Then began the days of half-consciousness. The rats kept bringing him food for a reason he did not understand, saving his miserable life crumb by crumb.

At some point, when he could see his entire body and move it on command, he understood where he was and where the water came from. He already knew he was at the bottom of a boat, although he could not recall how he got there, but now he thought he was beneath the machinery, in a cramped space where no one ever came. The water must have been from a cooling system that the rats had somehow diverted.  
Miraculously, he started getting better. He was dumbfounded at the quickness and greatness of his recovery and had a hunch his magical nature was to thank. Maybe he was unconsciously applying some kind of healing spell on himself. After all, he had seen Percival Graves do one of these before.   
Graves... he felt betrayal like acid on his tongue. 

 

Later, he tried to remember why he had gotten on that boat. He was fleeing yes, but where to? Where was he going?

Later, his stomach started asking for more, as the pain was receding and the water problem was solved. He could barely stretch in that cramped den of his, and his joints were like dry gears.   
But the worst came when emotion creeped back into his tremblind heart. He was frightfully, dreadfully alone. His only ally, Percival Graves, was a lie. He had posed as a friend and protector, when he only sought the power of the Obscurus. He had healed his wounds, held his head, and taken him under his wing. Then the façade had crumbled, and he had left him behind like a used rag. He had even hurt him, back on the underground railroad, before fleeing the scene as other wizards started attacking. Those had almost killed him, without giving him the time to even say anything. Was the world against him? Why did everyone either wanted to use him or kill him (or both, when he rememebered Mary Lou)? Was he not worthy of love? What had he done wrong? He cried on the floor, occasionally choking on his own tears as they went in his nose, and sobbed until his voice sounded like a cough. He felt so alone.   
Incredibly, the rats noticed his depression, and started bringing him gifts. Screws, buttons, coins, a dirty feather, even a square of colored, clean fabric. He wailed once more, petting the rodents to whom he was ridiculously grateful. He had no idea why they were so benevolent to him, but lord was he thankful. The scum of the earth, the plague-carriers, familiars of witches, were helping him. One gently whined at his face, apparently too scared to come close enough to touch it. Credence held no grudge – he must have looked unnatural. It was company fit for him, after all – he was a witch now.

 

About a day or two later, a bigger creature entered his field of vision, one that looked less normal than the rats. It was the size of a small dog and kept sniffing around, seemingly interested in the coins. Credence, who had gotten a bit of strenght back, snatched them from under its ugly nose, gathering his treasures and holding them against his chest. He wondered if that was a magical animal, or just one he had never heard of. He had always wanted to go to the zoo, but had never had the chance; maybe it was just an exotic beast? He hissed feebly at the animal. The rats scampered around him, yet remained at a safe distance from it.  
They ran off soon after, along with the weird badger, when footsteps approached. Credence stopped breathing altogether, and his heart started drumming madly against his ribcage. He did not want to fight anymore. He was unable to defend himself anyway, he was too weak. A panicked whimper escaped him.  
Then, the not-so-unfamiliar face of a young man popped up from the clutter, frozen in shock before it peered at him carefully.

 

When Newt had gone on a hunt for his Niffler – again – he was not expecting to meet Credence Barebone again. In fact, he had never expected to see him again. He had suspected his survival, seeing a dark shred of Obscurus sneaking off after the battle, but he had not thought he would find him on the same boat that took him back to Europe, so soon after the events of New York.  
He looked miserable, though to his credit not as much as he thought he would. Physically, he seemed rather well off for someone who had been hit full force by a squad of aurors and had been living at the bottom of a boat for eight days. Still, in Newt Scamander's book, he was in a state that required immediate care.   
He showed his open hands as a pledge of trust, keenly aware of the tension in Credence's body, his eyes blown wide and fixed on him, his huddled position – every thing that indicated sheer terror. 

“Credence?...” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the boat. The other flinched.  
“Credence... I don't want to hurt you. I'm here to help you. I can give you food, water, and a place to sleep. I can tend to your wounds,” he said, keeping his voice slow and even. Ordinarily, it would have been hard for him to hold a conversation with another human being, but that was Credence. He was, in a way, very similar to the creatures he was used to taking care of. He behaved like a wounded animal, weak and wary. In dire need of help. All he needed was to prove himself non-threatening.   
Physically, the Obscurial may have looked fine enough, but he expressed far more fear than he had back in New York, when Newt had spoken to him in the underground. He was visibly frightened which meant that he might attack – not that it meant he was dangerous. He was just scared, and once he had calmed down, he would get the medical and emotional care he needed.   
Newt thought of the Sudanese girl. Then he decided not to think.   
"Do you remember me?..."

 

Credence did not even blink. He thought, _yes, I remember you. You and the woman with the black hair_. He also thought: _do not trust anyone ever again_. Even though he knew he did not have the strength to fight, he shifted into a more defensive position.   
The British man's eyes widened. 

"You don't have to be scared of me. I won't hurt you or betray you. I just want to help you. But, but if you're scared, it's fine. I–" he scrambled at his coat and grabbed a green little thing hidden under the lapel.   
"Can I send my little friend here over to you?" he asked, then, lower "Come on now, Pickett, don't be shy." 

He very slowly detached the small, leafy creature from the fabric it clung onto and held it in front of him. Or rather the creature was holding onto his hand. It looked scared. It was very small. It couldn't really be dangerous, right?...

"It's a Bowtruckle," the wizard said as the thing observed Credence. "They act like guardians to usually magical trees and– there you go Pickett, now go say hi – are very peaceful. Well unless their tree or themselves are threatened, of course." The Bowtruckle had climbed down from the man's hand and was hesitantly walking up to Credence. "They can pick locks... once Pickett – that's him, that's Pickett – he saved me when I was, uh sentenced. Ah, but, that was a, an accident. It got sorted out later..."

When it got within reaching distance of him, Credence cringed and the creature immediately ran off to hide behind a pipe.

"Oh!... oh, you've scared him. Come on Pickett, Credence didn't mean to frighten you,” he encouraged.

Credence slightly leaned to get a better look at the creature. To that, Pickett inched back from his hiding spot. Hesitantly, he extended his bony, ashen hand in its direction. The Bowtruckle walked up to him and tentatively poked it. He flinched but it thankfully did not scare the creature away. So he lowered his hand and put it on the ground, palm up. Then the magic operated – it climbed on his hand, and Credence remembered how to breathe as a half-laugh of surprise escaped him. He focused on holding his hand perfectly still. The creature peeped. Credence breathed again. Then his eyes shot up to the wizard. He was suspended in a second of absolute wonder, eyes wide and smiling. Credence saw genuine, uncontrollable happiness painted on his face and it almost scared him. Then the moment dissipated and he was talking again.

"Can I come over to you?"

The Bowtruckle went back to the wizard. Credence stayed still as he clambered over the disarray of pipes, poles and pieces of unclear purposes.  
He let him get close. Far too close. But in the top pocket of his coat, he could glimpse the curious leaf creature, and he still remembered the man from New York, as well as the woman – suddenly, he recalled – _Newt and I will take care of you_.   
He whispered his name, Newt, when the latter reached the edge of his personal space. Newt smiled shyly, and it made Credence want to believe in hope again. 

"See? No reason to be afraid," Newt said as he inched towards Credence. He took his wand out of his pocket. Credence's first thought was that it was an elegant object; the second went to Modesty. "Now, will you let me help you?" he asked. 

Credence nodded. He felt drawn to him, for a reason he could not pinpoint. But he had just been brought back to life by a bunch of rats, what was one more incongruity?

"Perfect. Amazing. See my suitcase over there? I'd need you to get in it– Ah, it's – Sorry, you didn't know; it's actually much bigger inside. Oh, and my creatures are in there too – but don't worry, I'll arrange you your own spot, they won't bother you."  
Newt led him through the mess, helping him, encouraging him to use him as support when he felt weak. He held his hand and his weight even when he didn't have to. So when he opened the case, and stepped inside of it, suddenly disappearing from the chest down, Credence followed. 

It was a step into darkness. For a second, he felt as though he was losing his grasp on reality. Then, he felt the steps under his feet, small platforms with space between them, steep, and walked down them. Warm, golden light flooded the room. He didn't feel himself going all the way down the narrow stairs, or letting go of Newt's hand when pure wonder overcame him. It was bigger inside. It was bigger inside! It was impossible and magical. It reminded him of the time Graves healed his hand, that breach of reality, the disregard for the established rule of nature, in such an effortless way it almost looked like it was a jab at God. Magic giggled in the face of the absolute. 

The nature of the place reinforced its enchanting aspect in Credence's eyes. It was a shed, full of pots, dried plants, tools, flasks and it smelled like soil and wood. He could have closed his eyes and imagined he was in a field, or a forest, or a farm. It was like those illustrations of country life he had daydreamed about. It held the essence of a home, full of life in its every object. It was lived in, was meant to be lived in. Credence realized, Mary Lou's foster home was very different, as it had been meant to be worked in. His memories of it seemed darker, in comparison, as if the place had fundamentally lacked sunlight. 

"Alright sit there," Newt said, pointing at the floor beside the stairs while rummaging animatedly through the clutter. "Do you have any wounds?"

"No," he answered after a beat, "I don't think so."

"Great. Amazing!"  
He gave him a pastry, a honey-colored bun with snowy sugar on it, the size of his fist. The kind of thing he saw in the window display of bakeries but could never buy.

"Take it! It's for you. A friend of mine made it. He's a baker."

After a short hesitation, Credence took the smallest bite of it and it felt like paradise, sweetness flooding his tongue. Something warm and pleasant lurched in his chest and prickled in his eyes. Newt addressed him an encouraging smile before resuming his rummaging, following which he started churning diverse ingredients in a bowl. 

"That," he said, "is for your skin symptoms. From the looks of it, you've been on a bit of a surcharge lately, which is no wonder, really – so that'll help you cleanse your body a bit. Then... We'll see." 

Credence took another bite and looked at the white skin of his forearm. He had not paid attention, but he was covered in thin vein-like marks. They were purple-blue in hue, bruise-like so dark most of them looked black. He wondered if that was the actual color of his blood at the moment.  
Newt set the bowl on the table near him. It was now full of an unengaging brown mush. 

"Now let's set up your space, yeah? Oh no don't move, don't move, you eat while I do this." 

Sugar melted on Credence's taste buds.   
Newt disappeared in a closet. Blankets appeared. A lot of them. Most matched the wooden and neutral tones of the shack but two stood out, a yellow, flowery one and a fluffy, flamingo-like pink one. Noticing his surprised look, Newt explained: 

"It's the girls. Tina and her sister Queenie, they gave me these. They're very kind." He smiled and for a second his eyes met Credence's, who nodded without really knowing why.

Newt arranged a makeshift futon in a cozy corner amongst potted plants and bouquets of leaves bundles and happily informed that the spot would be his.   
"The only thing I need you to do now," he nodded at the mush in the bowl, "is eating your medication."

Credence did not frown, but he made a face.

The wizard chuckled. "I admit it's not gourmet food, but it will really help you feel better."

Credence's lips twitched and he made another face, this time to himself. 

Worry washed over Newt's face, momentarily redefining his features. Then, he realized:   
"Oh, I'm not poisoning you, I promise."   
He scooted over to him, snatching the bowl and crouching to his level. He looked like a weirdly endearing animal.   
"I know you're afraid and that is understandable. You've had a rough life and don't want to trust anyone in case they turn against you. But– but– Credence, I only want to help you. If I wanted to poison you, I could have done it earlier. I know it's scary, but please, let me help you," he pleaded. 

Credence raised his head from the protective position it was in and eyed Newt. The latter offered him the bowl. Credence blinked once, twice, before quietly thanking him and taking it. He was rewarded with an extremely pleased and encouraging smile, which sent tremors through his ribcage for the nth time that day.

Later, he found himself tucked in warm blankets, some softer than others, a full meal deliciously filling his stomach. Newt hustled in the impossible space of the suitcase, which had revealed itself to be far greater than just the shed, as well as being filled with loads of magical creatures of varying sizes and colors. Since he was obviously weary, Newt had constrained him to his makeshift bed and promised to show them all once he would be up and about.  
It filled his entire body with expectant wonder.

♠

Percival had fled – apparated – to Europe. He knew these lands for he had chased Grindelwald there, and it was far away. Very few American wizards had been to Europe, and the very few that did had died at the wand of the black wizard. Percival knew, because he had seen it with his own eyes. His own team, his colleagues, experienced aurors, murdered by a man he now hated personally.

He was staying in France. Not because he spoke the language – he didn't – but because it was convenient. In his opinion, the French were odd enough that he blended it quite easily as a wizard, but there were other, more reasonable advantages. First, it was not Britain, where, as few as they were who would know him, he might still get recognized by other wizards. He was being overly cautious, but that was how one survived. Second, he could still easily obtain world news, including those of the wizarding world. That would have not been the case in Iceland. Third, France was old with magic. It was running in the people's blood and underneath their feet, in the deep earth paths. He would not be bored.  
He had been spending his time researching and checking the news. He wanted to find a way – any way – to beat Grindelwald, to make him submit and to chain him up. He was wrathful as a storm, had been for a while now, and it was not helping him. It had even made him fail to get the Obscurial. The thought made him clutch his fists so hard his knuckles became white. Sometimes he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror of the hotel, and was greeted with pale fury. 

He wondered how it was possible for anger to show in such a form; it should have been red, passion, fire, blaze. He just felt faded, like the emotion had consumed the colors of him. He felt like a blizzard; he wanted to freeze Grindelwald's lungs and make him breathe ice shards, shake the Minister and frost his brain. His reason hated Grindelwald the most, but his heart despised himself more.

♠

There were very few things as wholeheartedly pleasing as someone discovering your passion and being as amazed as you first were. It was even more of a euphoric moment since Newt cared about this one in a different way that he cared about others – he was his protegee and made of miracles. Miracle 1: he was an adult Obscurial. Miracle 2: he survived two injustices (his adoptive mother; the aurors). Miracle 3: he appeared on Newt's way again, and agreed to stay with him (at least for the time being).   
Credence meeting the creatures truly was the highlight of the day – not of the week, because the week had been a rollercoaster. He felt like he was watching an egg hatching, from the way Credence was obviously frightened by the quantity, magical quality and simple existence of the creatures but still was so amazed and curious. He showed him the other Bowtruckles (which emitted a synchronized squeak of jealousy at Pickett), the Occamy babies, a couple of birds and other small creatures. He took him to the Mooncalves, let him feed them like the baker had, just a few days ago.

"These are from the New World, just like you. In their natural habitat, they're mostly hunted by Hodags but, here, I made sure to keep them separate. The Hodags I keep here are rather tame as well... As long as they're fed, most predators are actually harmless."

"What are the Hodags?"

"Frog head – sort of –, horns, glowing red eyes. Not bigger than a large dog, though! They like to hang out around farms, so I've heard."

"Could I see them?"

Newt nearly refused – a predator, right off the bat? But the boy looked so curious, so eager... and maybe he thought that, for him to see a harmless predator, that would cheer him up. So he accepted. He only had one couple of the large frogs, but he did not doubt it would still impress him.

"Look," he said, "the one with the broken horn – there, on her elbow – it's the female. She's very calm, as you can see."

Indeed, the animal was so tranquil she almost seemed to be sleeping. She opened her eyes, lazily blinking at the two humans crouching in front of her. Credence, upon being signaled he could go ahead, got closer. He hesitantly stretched out his hand toward her head.   
It happened very quickly. The Hodag launched herself at him at the same time Newt saw the eggs poking from under her belly. He only had time to jump in between them, knocking the boy over and offering his elbow to the toothy grasp of the creature. He yelped in pain as the fangs sunk in his flesh and mauled the bones. Slightly panicking, he shakily rummaged in his pockets with right hand for his wand. Everything was very confused ; he rolled over a few times, pulled and pushed by the Hodag, tried once or twice to force her jaw open, in vain, grabbed his wand then lost it again, grunted and groaned probably a lot. In a staggering instant, he saw a drip of his blood mixing with the beast's drool. The fight did not last any more than a minute, as he easily got the upper hand once he could use his wand, but it had felt like an hour. He was winded, shaky, he could not catch his breath. A minute had been enough to create a real mess ; the eggs might need some care now, and his shirt was tattered and bloody as well as his elbow, emitting waves of pain that felt like someone was pulling his arm apart.  
Then, he saw Credence. He was part of the mess as well.   
He had shrunk to a foetal gargoyle, and when he saw Newt's eyes on him, he flinched. Then, he fumbled a bit, gathering himself. He slowly stood up, and bowed his head to Newt.  
Newt stilled, bewildered. He felt his sleeve on his arm, wet and warm. His wound made the latter throb and tremble in pain. He didn’t understand what the boy was doing.

“Credence, what– ”

Credence shuddered. Then, he resignedly unbuckled his belt and handed it to the wizard.  
Newt’s eyes widened in realization. He tumbled forward, soothingly putting his valid hand on the other’s to ease them down. He gently pushed them back to the boy’s chest, holding them there. He called his name, beckoning eye contact.

“This is not going to happen.” He got no answer. “This is not how it works,” he continued. “Not anymore. Not with me. Never with me.” His elbow spasmed and he painstakingly kept himself from wincing. Blood dripped down his dangling fingers. He barely felt it.   
“What happened was not your fault, it was mine for not seeing she had eggs. You have nothing to blame yourself for. The people you lived with before treated you wrong. They were cruel. That’s not normal, you’re not always the one in the wrong. You're not any less or worse than anyone.” Seeing Credence’s gaze flicker to himself for a second, he corrected: “I’m not talking about your power. I am talking about your worth as a human being… You didn’t deserve what you went through. You deserve happiness, like everyone. Also, punishment is not a thing that will ever happen with me.”

Credence fell to his knees, dropping the belt at the same time.


	2. Third eye

Wand pointed to his arm, Newt watched the gap in his skin narrow. Magic was a given for every wizard; he seldom thought of how it might be without it. He would have bled a lot and needed a bandage. Recovery would have been lengthy. Muggles lived that way. To him, it was a dreadful thought. How could they get anything done, if they stopped at every injury? Did they earn a special wisdom from being forced into patience that wait? Perhaps they did; perhaps wizards were so used to quick healing and had become reckless as a result. He caught Credence staring at him from above his arms, crossed around his knees. He was no one to judge, but he thought the boy had a strange, alien kind of beauty to him. He wasn’t too surprised to know he had some magic in him, now. These kind of odd faces belonged to witchcraft.  
   
“See, I am perfectly fine. Stop moping.”  
   
Caught red-handed, his gaze dropped down, then went up again.  
“I have a question,” he said. As Newt indicated him to ask, he pursued, “Isn’t it scary to be able to heal so easily?”  
   
The wizard halted. “Scary? How so? I think it is most scary that one could have to stay for months in a hospital for recovery…”  
   
Credence propped his chin on his forearms, pensive. He exhaled in a way that made Newt think it was his way of humming. He repressed a shudder as he realized it was silent and invisible, probably taught by years of being told to _be still, be quiet, don’t stand out_.  
   
“I was thinking about… war and fights… I am assuming these happen as much in the wizardry world as it does for humans – so, I thought it would be scary to be able to heal up quickly and easily. You fight, you get hurt, and it hurts so much, but almost immediately you must go back, because it’s just a scratch. You’re not allowed to be scared of getting hurt or complain about it. As if it was not much. I thought that was scary. It would scare me.”  
   
His arm now intact, the wizard took the scene in for a second, as if it was a dream he had just woken up from. That was a lot of words for Credence. Plus, it was quite the philosophical thought. He had never even thought of seeing it that way. Perhaps he was right? Perhaps that was a little frightening, now that he said it. It was almost like intense pain was just not an issue. Well, it was not, really. It never lasted long anyway. He was probably sort of used to it and he wasn’t really a fighter anyway, so that was not so much an issue for him. But he could definitely conceive that it could be a disturbing thought for someone who had grown up fearing injuries more than he did. Muggle medicine had never been very efficient… Although he had heard that it had somehow gotten a lot better in just a few decades…? He was not sure. Muggles were not his field of studies.  
   
Mistaking his contemplation for something else, Credence suddenly retrieved his face from the scene, hiding behind his knees.  
   
"Well, you’re right," Newt spoke, "I never realized it was—yes, it would make sense to find that frightening. I guess, since this is what I have always known, I never thought of it like that…” He paused to think. “Are you scared? Of being a wizard?” he asked.  
He did not get an answer.  
   
Newt was making dinner. He hadn’t pushed him to answer, which filled Credence with both relief and anxiety. Relief, because he did not know how to answer. Anxiety, because he was not certain he ever wanted to, ad he would not be able to just forget about it now.  
The magical world was beautiful, from the perspective of Newt’s impossible suitcase. It was full of incredible creatures and weird artifacts and kindness. It shined, opalescent and lively. It was also scary. It contained wizards that contained power and death in twigs hidden in their sleeves. It bit flesh and burned skin. It grew like a spiderweb under his skin, it cloaked in illusion and mystery all of the dark places that he had in him. That was the most disturbing part – not that witches actually existed, but the fact that he was one of them. He had something growing inside of him, pitch black and earth-shattering. He did not feel as much like himself anymore but like he had been robbed of his sense of self, which had never been very shiny but had always been his at least. His person vanishing in a swirl of obscure power was a scary thought; he would rather not think too hard about it.  
 

♠

   


Darkness cloaked the room. He could not see it, as he was still sleeping. It was an uncanny sort of obscurity, one that crept up the walls and tinted the windows black, like a living shadow. The night was moonless, the sleeper, powerless. A dream had preyed on his mind and wouldn’t leave him alone. It was a dream of hurt and hurting, wounds like lightning and poison, a silhouette whose edges were a blur. Adrenaline flooded his system, agitating the dream like a chemical solution, poisoning it, accentuating it, augmenting the contrasts. Percival rose violently in his bed, lacking air. Something wasn’t right – his room still carried the atmosphere of the dream and, for a split second, he thought he was still asleep. His heart was hammering onto his ribcage to the rhythm of sudden terror. The night smelled of danger.  
_No, wait_ , it did not. It was his own magic, unbound by spells and wand, running loose. As his mind suddenly steadied itself, wise of a hundred battles, he called his power back into his shaky bones. The room emptied itself of the lifeless aura, the latter being sucked back to Percival’s body. He exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. It no longer felt like a no man's land.

It was in the nature of night terrors that they would strip bare whoever had them. They scraped for the most vulnerable form of the sleeper, pried off their power, their defenses, their control. Then, they had all night left to torment the powerless bit of soul left. A nightmare’s strength is infinite. It is not made of raw power but of the infinite potential of imagination. They could attack a fortress without worry, as they would slip through the walls, through the crossbowmen and the knight, and directly assault the fragile rose in its heart.  
It was not the first time that he had had this nightmare. In fact, ever since he came to France, it didn’t stop coming up. The theme repeated itself. Danger, pain, the notion of hurting, and a presence. He could never make the dream shift even when he was lucid, and always had a start upon waking up to his own magic threatening himself. Then, he would take control again.

Almost every night it woke him up in cold sweat. He was no child, he had seen his fair share of truly dangerous situation and was accustomed to living with alarm bells ringing at the back of his skull, but it was tiring. And that was without taking the magic into account.  
He knew these dreams were something unnatural. Most things were when you were a wizard, but still. He was, obviously, capable of wandless and nonverbal magic, but he had never _unconsciously_ casted spells. He knew it was, somehow, his power, but he didn’t know how or why he did it, nor what kind of spell it was. He had had nightmares in the past of course, but never had a dream seemed to merge with reality that way. He also could not produce the same effect when he was awake. He had not tried retracting his magic later, he did not want to risk trapping himself. It was outside of his control, like he was a host for something else. Maybe it came from his subconscious?  
It was research time -- this thing was too dangerous and he needed to get to the bottom of it. He had to find the local expert and have them tell him where to look.

  
   
“A seer. You're telling me to go to a seer,” Graves said, deadpan.  
   
The wizard he was talking to looked annoyed. He furrowed his bushy eyebrows and shook his plentiful mustache.  
“You asked for somebody knowledgeable. I answered.”  
   
“Then why are you sending me to a seer instead of a scholar?! I need precise answers, not some prediction.”  
   
He'd been bouncing from one person to another to try and obtain some information. That suspicious-looking cook was the fourth person he'd been sent to. The old man sighed into the worrisome pinkish fumes of the stew he was brewing. Then, he groaned. Then he sighed again, and groaned, and cursed in French. Percival had to muster all of his self-control to not dunk him into the cauldron.  
   
“You are a very annoying one," he said in a thick French accent. "Listen, I don't know how, but she's always got an answer. So, you go to her, and you let me work. She lives in the dead end near the theater. Go to the back of the building, stand on the sewer lid and knock.” He then went back to his brewing.  
Understanding he would not get anymore words out of the old man, Percival stormed off.  
   
   
He regretted it about twenty minutes later, when he found himself in the backstreet behind the theater, looking at three different sewer lids and no dead end in sight. Glancing left and right to make sure that he was alone, he started inspecting them. They all looked very no-maj-ey from afar. However, one stood out: added to the normal inscriptions, the metal plate bore intricate designs that had been etched onto it. They were old, but he recognized a cat and a bird that looked like a corvid among the folliage. Witch animals. He put both his feet on the lid and knocked.  
And the world turned upside down as he was thrown into pitch blackness.  
He panicked for a second, before the light came back on and he realized that he hadn't moved at all. He was still crouching on the lid, in the street behind the -- wait.  
The passing street was no more. The theater still stood behind him, but he was in between two habitation blocks now, framing a new perpendicular street that ended a few strides further in a cul-de-sac. Right in front of him, a sign read "Impasse qui Passe." As soon as he looked at it, its text swirled and changed to "Undead end."  
   
There were about fifteen habitations in there – he could not tell for sure, because they looked like they had been randomly stacked up on top of each other. A woman was hanging up laundry at her window. She paid him no attention at all. In the left corner, a door opened on its own. _There I go, I guess._ Inside, he was welcomed by a flight of unlit stairs leading to an unassuming door. Still, he knocked.  
   
“Entrez!”  
   
He came in. The room smelled of tree bark and moss, even though there were no trees in sight.  
   
“You're not from here, are you?” The voice came from a woman – the seer, evidently. He had not seen her yet, as she was covered in dark and vibrantly colored veils, unmoving. “Sorry, I was meditating.” She delicately lifted the veils up with slender, adorned hands. They fell silently behind her upright position. Her skin was an odd, purplish color, kind of like rosewood. Percival suspected the strange lights haunting the room to be the cause. Her eyes were also dark, like black pools of marsh water, and her hair was long, very, very long, tied into a braid that spiraled on the floor around her.  
She certainly cared about aesthetic.  
   
“America.”  
   
“I see.”  
   
Her English was spotless. No accent at all. In fact, her accent was so neutral it was a little disturbing; you couldn't tell anything from it. Maybe she wasn't even French. He observed her more carefully. No matter how much he examined her, the accessories she wore or the possessions she had on display, he still didn't know more about her. It was not that she lacked them -- she had too many, and they were almost all mysterious in origin: wooden sculptures or unknown characters, ornate leather armbands next to shiny bracelets, objects that looked like nothing he'd ever seen. The room itself held enough mysteries to keep him occupied for a week.  
Suddenly it hit him: it was on purpose, it had to be. You'd think someone trying to suppress hints would go for a minimalistic lifestyle; she was doing the exact opposite. She was hiding in plain sight. She was extravagant and colorful yet every detail kept the mystery up. Even... her voice.  
The potential of what she was hiding made him uneasy, but most of all piqued his interest. He was not one to bow to fear or his peers, no matter how powerful they were.  
   
“I was told you could help me.”  
   
She smiled, amused. “It depends on your problem. Come, sit, tell me about it,” she said, pointing to a pillow on the other side of the coffee table. He complied; it was quite comfortable.  
   
“How can I know I can trust you?”  
   
“Frank,” she laughed. “Would you trust the cards, instead?” As she spoke, she smoothly spread a deck on the table.  
   
“No.”  
   
She put the cards away just as swiftly as she had taken them out.  
“Well then. I'm afraid you have no way of telling how trustworthy I am other than my word.”  
   
“Is that all?”  
   
“I can't change you. You're the only one who can do that.”  
   
“Do people usually trust you?”  
   
“Not always.”  
   
“Would you trust you, were you in my place?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Percival shifted on the cushion. He hated this already, but what choice did he have?  
“It's sleep related.” Immediately, she was focused. No hitch, no split second – he had all of her attention. “I have nightmares. I wouldn't mind them, if they didn't--” he hesitated, “they make me lose control. I don't know exactly what's happening, but when I wake up, my magic is all over the place. It fills the room and carries the exact same feeling as the dream, which is always pretty much the same for some reason. It feels... destructive. No, maybe just dangerous. Like a strong reaction. Or a moody crowd -- unpredictable, you know? Then I retract it as soon as I can. Later on, I can never reproduce what happened. It's always when I'm just waking up. I want to know what it is, at least.”  
   
“You can do wandless and nonverbal magic.” It wasn't a question. She brought her long fingers to her lips, pressing them lightly. “Something of importance has happened to you recently? The reason you're so far away from home, I assume.”  
   
Maybe she knew who he was. Or maybe she had seeing powers coupled with deduction skills. Either way, it annoyed him. She caught on his bad mood (which was even more annoying) and said with severity “I'm trying to help you. Truly. You made the choice to trust me, please act like it.”  
   
There was something in her voice, that compelled him to follow suit. It made him want to agree with her, like her authority on the matter was an evidence. It wasn't just other people who trusted her capacities and good intentions, she seemed to do as well. He wanted to believe her. That made things much more simple, but anyone who had power was not to be trusted blindly, unless you had equal or superior power. He was not sure he did. In fact, he had no idea how dangerous she could prove.  
He was strong, though. He just had to keep an eye on her, to be cautious.  
   
“You're right.”  
   
She smiled kindly. “I don't remember reading about anything similar to what you're experiencing, but I could have forgotten. I have read a lot of books. Maybe it will occur to me if we can gather more details.” She produced a parchment and writing utensils from a table drawer. The quill she was using showed signs of wear. “Tell me about the dream. Maybe it is hiding secrets.”  
   
So he told. He talked about the feeling of urgency and danger, how it was a mess but always did emerged the notion of hurt and hurting. How there was a blurry silhouette in the distance, but he had no idea who that was or if it was really a person. And how that was all.  
   
She took notes, but didn't seem enlightened by them. “I don't want to pressure you to describe the event that brought you here, but maybe that would help... Even if not a full description, maybe you would be willing to answer some questions.”  
   
“Try and ask.”  
   
“Were you the one being hurt?”  
   
“No-- wait, how do you know someone was--”  
   
“So it was one person.”  
   
“How do you know.”  
   
“It was the most probable occurrence. I was just musing, you confirmed it. I am sure you already know that dreams can tell a lot, especially for us magic lot.”  
   
“...Whatever. Continue.”  
   
“Were you the one who hurt the other?”  
   
“Uh...” he paused. “I would say no. Not directly. Well, maybe. I sort of caused him to get hurt by others, unintentionally.”  
He cringed internally when he realized he'd let the pronouns slip. Her intensity made him feel like he had no control, and it was infuriating. He hated her and the fact that he needed her help with the burning passion of someone who needs an outlet.  
   
She was tapping the wooden end of her pen on her lips, deep in thoughts. She stayed like this for a while. Percival did not dare to move – if she was trying to recall some obscure book, he would not be the one who cut her off in her reflection and made her lose her thread. He wanted answers. A minute passed. Then another. He started debating whether or not he should count the time. Then her gaze jolted up to him. “May I look at your hands? Both of them palm up, on the table. Close your eyes, please, and don't open them before I tell you. It may take a while. Don't move.”  
He did what he was told, begrudgingly. He felt her fingers gliding on his, to the center of his palms, her long nails tickling his skin like the edge of a knife. The scent in the room changed, from forest to nothing at all, to seashore to sand to wet pavement. When it finally settled, it smelled like roses and incent, and Percival felt his consciousness waver.  
   
When he heard “Open your eyes,” he knew that time had passed, just like when you wake up from a dream but can't remember it. The seer was rapidly taking notes, not looking at him. She absent-mindedly wiped a drop of blood from her nose.  
   
“What happened?” he asked.  
   
“I abused my Sight a little. My body paid the toll. As to you, not much. I was searching for hints.”  
   
“You read my mind?” He felt anger flare in his chest. She had no right to--  
   
“Not exactly. The Sight is different than trying to read minds. It doesn't speak the same language we do. It gives... insights, hints, clues, whatever you call them, in the shape of feelings, or something similar. I was specifically looking for leads on your problem, so that's what I got.”  
   
“Couldn't you have done that from the beginning, then?”  
   
“Like I said, it takes its toll on my body. I don't use it for just any case. Also, I think I have an idea. Maybe. I need to look into it.”  
   
“If that involves reading books, let me help. I want to wait as little as possible. And I'm a scholar.”  
   
She looked at him for a long time. Was she evaluating him? Staring off into space?  
She blinked after an unnatural length of time. “Alright. Follow me.”  
   
She possessed, indeed, quite a lot of books. Her library was big and packed; piles of tomes sprouted a bit everywhere, every shelf being full already. It was old, as well. Plants were growing, inside and not under control, it seemed. The architecture reminded him of a church, with its arches (books went up as high as the shelves curving along the ceiling), except it didn't have any windows (or they were covered in books, he could not tell). Instead, drops of white light levitated in places the lamps didn't reach. He realized that the seer had probably studied general magic as well, and was well-versed in it. It wasn't anything terribly impressing (he was more impressed by the sheer quantity of books), but he had not expected it either.  
   
She muttered in French about library sections. Percival dubiously looked at her shedding layers of veils and robes to uncover comfortable-looking pants and light shoes. Then, she proceeded to climb through the shelves. He noticed her path was far from random – she had placed tiny steps specifically for her to put her weight on there. From how at ease she was, he guessed she had spent a lot of time here; maybe she was not lying about reading all these books.  
   
“Couldn't you just _accio_ to you instead of climbing? You can do magic, can't you?” he asked.  
   
“Ah!” she said, still ascending, “Were you not taught to be gentle with books? Some of them are pretty moody, you know.”  
   
“Of course. I didn't think your books would be of that crowd, though.”  
   
“Maybe I just like the exercise. Maybe I don't know that spell.”  
   
He could not tell if she was joking or not. She was now holding herself almost horizontal on the ceiling, examining the cover of the books on the higher shelves. She spent a minute at it, her rope of a braid slightly swaying in the air. Captivated by the tuft that ended it, Percival now understood the minds of cats.  
A minute later, she delicately pulled out a book and whispered a spell that made it levitate to the floor while she gracefully climbed down. Now that it was closer, he could see that the book was a breath away from decaying into dust. He did not dare talking for fear the displacement of air would scatter it like the wind. However as soon as the thin fabric clothing her feet touched the floor, she moved gingerly towards the book. She cradled it in her jeweled hands, releasing the levitation spell, and sat cross-legged on that same spot, on the floor. Soon enough she displayed the tome before her, and started turning its pages ever so gently, her eyes focused like those of a hawk.  
He waited. She eventually stopped on a page and smiled for herself.  
   
“Mr. American, I have a solution for you.” Then she read the page out loud, or maybe translated it since he doubted the book was written in modern English, or even English at all. “See, this is mostly about guilt. Do you feel guilty, Mr. American?”  
   
“Don't call me that.”  
   
“Then tell me your name.” She smiled again, mischievous.  
   
“Will you tell me yours if I do?”  
   
“Most certainly.” She fell silent, waiting.  
   
“...”  
   
“...”  
   
“Horace Valentine,” he groaned reluctantly. That was his runaway name, the one he had also given to the hotel.  
   
She eyed him curiously. “I am Ruya.”  
   
He squinted. The twinkle in her eyes and the way she said it told him that it was-- “--not your real name though, is it,” he said, not asking.  
   
She maintained her prospecting eye contact in an infuriating manner and laughed. It was short and playful, just a few breaths out. “I have had a lot of names, Mr. Valentine. That one just happens to be the one I am using at the moment. It is a good name for who I am now. Since I chose it myself, it can only be true to myself, don't you think? It is less deceiving than a birth name can be. There is too much honesty in choosing one's own name for that.”  
   
He said nothing.  
   
“Anyway, where were we... Yes, as I said, this is about guilt. You feel guilty, Mr. Valentine. Enough that you actively try to avoid the subject like you just did.” She spoke at a slow pace, letting him take in the information. “I will not ask you what you did, and what happened, as it is irrelevant so far. The instructions are a bit fairy tale-like and not very specific though... Let's see... It seems you have to go to the person you hurt, or whatever the cause of your guilt is, and--” she stopped, interrupted by Percival's furious yell of frustration. He swore between his teeth.  
   
“Let it go. You can't help me. That won't work at all.” That being said, he started striding out, but a sharp Latin word from Ruya slammed the door right before him, rustling his hair.  
   
“Not so soon! What's going on?”  
   
He turned to face her, dread and rage electrifying his stare. “He is dead.”  
   
She seemed taken aback, but only for a millisecond. “Are you sure of that?”  
   
“You're not going to ask me if I killed him?”  
   
“I don't think you did. Murder brings worse things than nightmares. That is not my question. Are you absolutely certain that he is dead?”  
   
He frowned. Everything about her was suspicious. She knew too much, she was behaved in too odd a way. Who would help a potential murderer? She was of the magical world – maybe she had recognized his face. The French usually did not, but she was not of the usual crowd. He was pretty sure she was not French at all. Her smooth accent was a mask of anonymity.  
Yet he had to answer. Her tone was more inquisitive than it was authoritarian; she was a curious being. It made him curious as to the extent of her knowledge and capacities. It was contagious. Slowly, his heightened heartbeat decreased.  
   
“...I saw him disappear. Energy and shape scattered to the wind.”  
   
“Did you see a body?”  
   
“Obviously not.”  
   
“Energy you said also. Is he of the magical world?”  
   
“...Yes.”  
   
“Wizard?”  
   
“Not really.”  
   
“What then?”  
   
He hesitated. The moment was pivotal. If he told her that Credence was an Obscurial, he would not stop giving her information. That also meant that he would believe what she seemed to believe – that maybe the boy was not dead. That thought alone was staggering.  
She was staring with ravenous curiosity and -- hope? She had been suspecting that it was an interesting case from the beginning and he was only further confirming her theory, he supposed.  
She was intelligent after all. And she was her last resort; he did need to fix himself.  
   
“An Obscurial. A adult Obscurial, the most powerful ever seen.”  
   
Her eyes widened. Eyes on the prize – it was gold for her. “An Obscurial... an adult... alive...? Oh my...” she murmured, disbelieving. “Oh, now _anything's_ possible. Mr. Valentine!” she exclaimed, “Let's find that man. If he inhabits your dreams he may as well still inhabit this realm. Follow me.”  
   
Confused, hopeful and most of all intrigued, he fell in stride after her, his city shoes clacking after the soft tap of her light feet. From the library they went back to what he assumed was her office, where she sat again after setting a large bowl, like a birdbath, on the table. She filled it with water that almost immediately became perfectly still and clear. Had he not seen her do it, he would have thought the bowl was empty. He sat across from her, as they had been before. Waiting. Expecting the unexpected. In the lights of the room, her dark skin took its pinkish tint again.  
   
“See, this is a mirror.” As she said it, the water surface turned white, like the reflecting eyes of a cat at night. _So much for looks_. “I will need you and your knowledge of this man to help me find him, if he is still of this world. Would you mind describing him to me? What's he like in your eyes?”  
   
“In his twenties or so, but acts like a child. Tall, white as a sheet, bowlcut black hair. Extremely shy and weak-willed, very gullible. He seeks recognition like a dehydrated man in the desert seeks water and would do anything for it. Very powerful but he was not aware of it until– whatever. An orphan, taken in by an anti-witch organization and made to work for them.”  
   
“That explains the Obscurial part.”  
   
His silence was a yes.  
   
“Is that all? Nothing else that stood out?”  
   
He reflected upon it. “He was the only adult orphan, I think. I don't know. The woman who took care of him beat him regularly.” He saw Ruya wince from the corner of his eye, as if she was pretending to care. Maybe she did.  
   
“...Okay. Do you have anything that belonged to him?”  
   
“No, I – wait, I do. Does something that I gave him count?”  
   
“As long as it belonged to him for a period of time, it should. Show me?”  
   
Percival took the deathly hallows pendant out of his pocket and let it fall and coil in the open palm of the seer. Her silence and the pause she took to observe it betrayed her curiosity.  
   
“Alright, last thing. Did he have a name?”  
   
“Credence Barebone.”  
   
She closed her left hand over the pendant, laid the right flat on the table, and simply said “Mirror mirror... Find Credence Barebone,” while looking into its shining surface.  
   
Now _that_ was underwhelming. Or so he thought until ribbons of ivory white began to swirl on the water, ghostly and iridescent. He looked up and noticed that Ruya's eyes were white and alight as well, and her face emotionless, seemingly looking into the distance. Although he did not dare moving and possibly disturbing her, he felt as though she would not notice anything happening in this room at the moment. She was away, gone looking for a dead boy. It lasted for an hour or a minute, he could not tell. When her eyes flickered back to a deep brown iris, and the water mirror stopped shining, he had a fatigue in his bones that had him feeling like he had been unconscious for a while. He was not surprised though, since he had been taught esotericism like everyone at Ilvermorny, and had, unlike most, actually listened to the class. Not that it had interested his younger self at all, but he had believed in knowledge and success, and so he had learned.  
   
“Your boy, is he... odd face, kind of beautiful, all in sharp lines?”  
   
So he was alive. He felt so drowsy, he had trouble being surprised.  
“...That would be him, yes,” he replied softly, knowing it was a rhetorical question. She already knew and was judging his reaction to such a description, so he took care to be as unexpressive as possible. She stared for a second too long, and he wondered if he was frustrating her. He hoped so.  
   
“He was not alone. Another young man, caramel hair, kind face, name's Newt. Does that ring a bell?”  
   
Percival sucked in a breath. “Newt?” he said, raspy, “Yeah.” How was that possible? What had happened? Was he involved with Credence's survival, had this been planned? How had he, a simple Hogwarts wizard, been able to find the Obscurial when he hadn't? He would find those answers. “Where?”  
   
“London. On the way, at least. I wasn't sure at first, since they were on a boat, so I went on a little tour around – uh, anyway, yes. To London.”  
   
“Thank you,” he said, and jumped up on his feet.  
   
“Wait a second, are you rushing off again? Where are you going?”  
   
“To London! Where else?”  
   
“Do you just intend to go unprepared like this? You don't even know the steps or just enough. What will you do when you get to him? Yell at him to fix you? Oh, men like you. Never a second thought.”  
   
She was already roaming her office and gathering things in a bag, which gave him an foreboding.  
“What are you doing?” he growled.  
   
“Coming with you, of course! Consider that your payment – you let me come with and you'll never see me again after this. Besides, you came here for help, I can't let you go unhealed. That's part of my job. Also, you'll need help reading all these books.”  
   
“What books?”  
   
She smiled as though she was repressing a laugh and sauntered off into the library. Graves did not lose a second and went for the exit door. His hand bounced off the handle, pushed back by a magic field, and he heard an actual laugh come from the corridor this time. He tried Apparating, and was met with similar success. The house was as suspicious and full of surprises as its owner. He hated both equally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi to the new character! if OCs in fanfiction aren't your thing, don't worry: she's pretty cool. also, she's quite essential, so it's not like i could get rid of her, even if i wanted to.


	3. Convergence

Newt walked off the deck with the relief of leaving the boat's constant rocking behind washing over him. He was not much for the ocean, never had been. That was just how it was, some people could not bear to be near animals, and he could, and some people loved to be at sea, but him not so much. He carefully did not glance at his case, although he was quite worried about Credence, because he was in line going through security and did not want to arise any suspicions. He avoided leaving him alone with the creatures as much as he could. It was not that they were vicious, but the young man was easily scared, and fright was not encouraged in the field of animal care. He always preferred to be present whenever somebody else was with the creatures anyway.  
   
It went well, of course; he had just been worrying too much. He showed his case, made it look as though it only contained some clothes and a watch. The muggle looked, affably closed it and handed it back to him, remaining very cordial throughout the process. “Welcome to London sir,” he greeted him. Newt warmly thanked him and strode off.  
   
Anxious to get home as soon as possible, he took a cab. He arrived less than twenty minutes later with sore digits from fidgeting on the handle of his case. He scurried off the cab and into the bookstore that held the entrance to Dustille Street. The shop owner, an elderly woman with speckled brown skin and eyes hidden under her falling brow, barely responded to his greeting, so he quickly proceeded towards the dark, unlit end of the shop. There, he pulled the books in the right order, muttering the password in rhythm, and the bookshelf distorted itself and went flat into the side walls. It revealed the old, musty wooden door he was used to. He went through it and heard the bookshelf rearranging itself behind him.  
Now he was in Dustille Street again, one of the dirtiest of wizardry London, but also one of the cheapest. He had a small apartment in here, that belonged to his family and that he was the only one to use anymore. It was as he remembered it: grey, cramped, but functional. It did not matter much that it looked boring and morose; his case was his real home. The flat just gave him a place to put it. He set it on the floor, opened it and flicked the lights on with a swish of his wand and a spell. Credence peeked his head out of the case, like a curious mermaid out of the sea. He assessed his surroundings and very carefully did not make a face, which made Newt chuckle.  
   
“I told you it was mediocre. I live in the case more than I live here – it's more of a, say, starting point for when I am in London. It is very cheap, that's the good point.”  
   
Credence's face twisted into a scowl.  
   
“I know, I know, not the best first impression for London. But it is a nice city – I'll show you. Not today though, it will be night soon. Let's take care of the creatures, shall we?”  
   
Credence sunk back into the case and Newt after him.

♠

Percival Graves was facing a total stranger. That stranger had his face, his build, and only lived in the full size mirror facing him, but it was a stranger nonetheless. He wore one of these awful, flat French hats, much like those _crêpes_ they liked so much, except it was a dull and unappetizing color. He also sported round wire glasses and a brown vest and jacket with darker pants. It was a bit ugly, but he suspected Ruya had tried to give him a style that would not dismay him too much. She finished by slapping a fake mustache under his nose with a smile that said she was holding back a laugh. It was in vain, though: he was not as angry as he thought he would be with the situation. It was frustrating, but she had done a good job of disguising him – even if they met other wizards in London or on the way, they  would not even spare him a second glance. He was hidden in plain sight. It was strangely exciting.  
As for _her_ disguise, it was even better – probably because she did not try to comply with her fashion sense -- unless that was her style too? She had gathered her hair on top of her head, tucked in a piece of dark blue fabric that had once been vibrant. She was dressed in a comfortable suit top the color of ale, with a skirt reaching below her knees and leather boots. She appraised their reflection with an air of ruthless judgement. When she finally dropped her scrutiny, she said:  
   
“We look like professors. Perfect! We'll be reading books on the way there.”  
   
“What subject are we studying? Our professor selves, I mean.”  
   
“Foreign civilizations, anthropology, something like that. Mr Valentine, I don't know how much of a liar you are, but please remember to not elaborate your lie too much. Nobody really cares about the job of some snobby old white man on the train.”  
   
He scoffed, as if to say _I am an excellent liar, thank you very much_. “Some people get curious.”  
   
“Oh, not if you're as insufferable as you look. Now let's go!” she exclaimed, throwing a suitcase in his hands. “Your stuff, old man.” The case was not his, but it did hold the little possessions he had brought with him, including his beloved coat, that they had collected from his hotel room a few hours earlier. She had a small suitcase herself, smaller than his own, but that was only because most of what she had decided to bring was in his case. Percival thought that it was a lot of effort just to go to London. Had he not been on the run from the law, he could have apparated in peace, without having to suffer the presence of a know-it-all French-or-maybe-not-French woman. He had to admit that her help was precious, though. He did not think he could have done such a good job of disguising himself, not to mention that she located Credence. And that Credence, Merlin knew how, was alive.  
Maybe he would get his chance to beat Grindelwald this time. Maybe he could still convince the boy to help him – or coerce him, if he had to. It was about doing what was right, what was needed. Grindelwald was killing people, murdering innocents, Credence's little feelings could wait a little longer.  
They got to the train station in just over thirty minutes, thanks to Ruya's profound knowledge of the streets. It was as though she had been spending her days walking them – and maybe she had been. She had bid her neighbors in the cul-de-sac goodbye, and the familiarity between them told Percival that they might all be more than just neighbors. That made sense after all, since they all had to take the sewer lid passage to get home. His curiosity titillated, he promised himself to learn more if the occasion presented itself. He might learn more about his too-mysterious travelling companion in the process.  
The train huffed and puffed like an old man sitting outside a bar in the winter. The smoke whistled, then the man in the hat whistled, and they went aboard. Ruya outstretched her gloved hand to pretend to have him help her up the steep steps. Her smile said affection and he wondered if she was flaunting her acting skills or just eccentric.  
 

♠

   
Curiosity devoured Credence like a hungry child might devour a warm bun before the winter wind would cool it off. There was so much to see, to hear, to smell. It was not just London, it was _wizard London_ , full of the wonders of the world he had been forbidden to be even intrigued by, this world in which he was now supposed to fit.  
Diagon Alley was as busy as it ever was. Newt, being his observant self, knew how curious the boy was when it came to the magical world. He was delighted to see that he was right; Credence's starry-eyed expression was worth diamonds. He initially compared his curiosity to that of wizards who were interested in muggle life, before correcting himself -- that was on a whole different level. Wizards knew that muggles existed without question -- they lived in their shadow and observed them. Muggles however did not know for a fact that wizards existed. He found the same incredulous wonder in Credence that he had seen in Jacob Kowalski. It was so strongly painted on his face that Newt almost felt jealous that he would never experience such a thing. What would it be for him -- if he found a hidden land full of supposedly fictional or extinct creatures? He almost smiled at the thought.  
   
They were taking advantage of the weekend crowd to go unnoticed as they toured the shops. As much as Credence understood the precaution – he would do anything to not go back to that moment of being nearly killed, really – he was not very comfortable having so many people around him. He had never been very fond of crowds in general, even back in New York when he used to give out pamphlets for the Second Salemers. He had done what he had been asked to, as he always did with Mary Lou for fear of retaliation, but it had never been pleasant.  
   
In a way, London was worse. Sure, he was with Newt, who was benevolent and kind and caring to such an extent he could not doubt his sincerity for too long, but the city was large and unfamiliar. It scared him, actually. Was this not supposed to be the world he belonged to now? How could he belong to a world that he knew nothing of, that he grew up without even knowing if it really existed? He examined the pristine crystal ball in his hands, as if he tried to find an answer. But he was no seer, and he could do little but look at the mysterious swirls of smoke inside it. He did not belong to his old life, the New Salem Philanthropic Society, which he had conveniently put an end to; but he did not belong to this new world either, even though he was supposed to. Magic ran in his veins and he had just been semi-adopted by an actual wizard, but still he was a complete stranger to wizardry. It dawned on him that he belonged nowhere; the realization crushed him like glass under a hammer. He was alone and homeless, pretty much.  
He must have been staring off into space, because Newt patted the crystal ball, cautiously not touching his fingers.  
   
“Is everything all right?” he said as he took the object of his unmoving hands. His voice was low, with the tone of privacy; he was creating a bubble of safety within the shelves of the shop. Reassuring.  
   
“...It's okay,” the young man replied, weakly. Closed off, again. Retreating. Newt didn't seem to mind.  
   
“Want to take a break? We can grab something to eat and enjoy a bit of quiet before we go see other things.”  
   
It kept surprising him, how patient and seemingly unbothered Newt was, when he could not keep up with the pace of life. It did not make sense. He wanted to revel and bask in this tailored support the wizard was giving him, and some days he even thought Newt wanted him to do so, but he was too unnerved, waiting for the moment the curtain would fall and reality would take over. It was all the more distressing, because he did not know what Newt wanted of him. If he was giving so much to help him, how much would he ask for in return? Credence was not sure that he would be able to give that much. Those thoughts occupied him all the way to the inn and it was only when Newt asked him what he wanted that he mustered the courage to say no.  
   
“Oh, are you not hungry? Would you want something to drink instead?”  
   
Why was it so hard to refuse? “N-No, I...” – cursed was his stumbling voice! – “I can't.”  
   
Newt looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Are you okay?”  
   
“Y-Yes! Yes, it's just, uh... I can't! I can't, um, accept all of this.”  
The wizard was obviously suspecting something. Credence did his best to keep a straight face, but he could feel his heart picking up the pace in his chest. He started sweating.  
   
“...Why?” he asked, almost whispering again. Slipping beneath the metaphorical sheet that Credence was hiding under, gently entering the safety of its shade. Credence swallowed thickly.  
   
“I – I won't be able to give back. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I took so much and, but – I can't, I don't have enough to give back to you.” His blood was pulsing through his veins, his heart pumping at an accelerated rate, like a bird starting to panic in its cage. He looked at the table wood with determination, unable to face the wrath that would no doubt come from his answer. He examined the flowing lines of the wood, the nodules where a branch once was. The air felt cold.  
   
“What are you talking about? Giving what back?”  
   
Did he have to be so cruel as to torture him this way? To make him spell out his own mistakes and inevitable doom? He had not thought that Newt could be so vicious, but maybe that was fair, after all. He felt betrayed, most of all by himself for allowing himself to be so greedy.  
“Well– ” his voice was wavering. He stilled it, reminding himself that it might make him less annoying. “What you were going to ask for. In exchange for what you do. If you do too much, I won't have enough to give you back,” he insisted. "…Please stop. I don't have enough to give back already. Please stop," he pleaded.  
There was a pause. Credence heard Newt sigh and he shuddered. The wizard finally understood, and now there would be consequences. But that was fair, he reminded himself, that was fair for the greed he had showed when he had nothing to give in exchange. Incapable of looking at him, Credence resolutely kept staring at the table, feeling an icy drop of sweat slither down his spine.  
   
“Credence, it's okay. Look at me, please,” he said in an engaging tone. Credence had no choice but to obey. At least if he remained gentle-worded throughout this whole thing, it would be easier to go through. The outcome would remain the same though, and maybe the kindness of his voice was a bit cruel then.  
“Credence,” he persisted, “I am not going to ask anything of you in exchange for my kindness."  
   
Credence froze. What did that even mean? What then?  
   
"That is not how it works. I am taking care of you because you need somebody to take care of you, and I couldn't bear to leave you to die or be depressed and abused. You won't -- you will _not_ have to give me anything that you are not okay with giving away. We are not... We are not in a _contract_. What I do, I do because I want to help you. Because I want you to be happier. That is all. Not because I hope to gain anything from you later. I do it for your sake, Credence... not mine.”  
   
The air regained its warmth, even though he could still feel the adrenaline electrifying his blood just underneath his skin. He was out of words and took a big breath instead.  
   
“Do you understand? Do you want me to explain better?”  
   
Credence hurriedly nodded and looked up. “N-No!... I... I understand. I – um. Thank you,” he blurted as his voice broke and he instantly started weeping.  
   
Newt laughed a little and gently dried his tears with a napkin. He looked a bit teary-eyed himself as he rearranged Credence's dark bangs on his forehead.  
   
“Well, then!" he chuckled when they were done mopping up their overflowing emotions. "What do you want?”  
   
   
   
When they went home much later – as long as he forgot his fear, Credence's curiosity had _no end_ – Newt found himself stacking up books from the library on his desk and sitting down in front of a blank parchment. It was all for research on Obscurials. That one would survive past childhood was supposedly unheard of, but maybe he would be able to find more information. In particular, he hoped to find out anything that could indicate whether or not Credence was to survive longer, and if that was not the case, how to prevent it. There had to be way. As for the parchment, that was the first thing he did that night – he wrote a letter to Tina. She had to know that Credence was alive, and everything else that had happened. He made sure that she would be the only one able to open it and read it. He doubted that MACUSA was watching him, but he couldn't be too cautious.  
His days were going to be long from now on, he mused with enthusiasm.  
 

♠

Percival Graves had been cursed. It was not a metaphor for being stuck traveling with Ruya, although that was another curse on its own (she had become bolder upon finding out that her playful sense of humor greatly annoyed him), but the truth. That is what he had just realized, when after going to the bathroom a few wagons further he found that he could not go much farther. Physically, he could, and he doubted that in terms of sheer potency the seer's magic was any match to his, so obviously it was a trick. Whatever spell she had put on him made him feel nauseous if he went too far away from her. Curious, he had simply wanted to go to the other end of the train and maybe the thought of getting off alone at the next station had crossed his mind. Stepping a few feet back to ease the dizzy feeling, he sighed heavily. He stomped all the way back to their seats, anger simmering. He gruffly fell back into his seat. “Take it off,” he seethed.  
   
She giggled. “I'm not sure why you didn't do so yourself.”  
   
His train of thoughts halted. Just a simple spell...? He closed his eyes, trying to get a feel of the fabric of magic in between them, before finding out that it was, indeed, an extremely simple spell that he could have taken off very quickly on his own. He grumbled and wordlessly killed the spell.  
   
“You have to admit it was a bit funny,” she mused, eyes not leaving the thick tome she was reading.  
   
“...It probably was, to you.”  
   
“And it made you stay on the train.”  
   
He sighed. “Why are you so intent on following me around?”  
   
She finally looked up. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, eyes opened wide. “I'm not following you around, or following you at all; I'm helping you. You have to recognize that at least, or I'm bailing right now.”  
   
He mulled over it for a second. “Stay.”  
   
“Uh huh. Better. You need to recognize your peers more, Sir Horace Valentine." After a pause, she added, "And I'm tagging along because your story is interesting."  
   
The train ride was absurdly long. France was such a small country, how could it take such a long time to cross it? Why were no-majs so proud of their technology, when it barely reached the efficiency level needed? Though Percival soon noticed that time was passing much faster than he thought. Reading about obscure, old magical things was entertaining. In particular, he and Ruya were forced to share their knowledge with each other, as the most interesting parts were usually written in obscure languages, some even being encrypted. They slowly decoded the pages, their bubble of concentration shooing off any curious onlooker. They went through the book list faster than expected, not having learned much. Ruya frowned and started chewing the inside of her cheek. Percival closed the last tome and slid it towards her on the small table between them.

“So,” she started, “...back to the beginning and vague instructions. Unless you want to try one of those potions that were in the Gadreler book, hah. They certainly are... creative.”

“Certainly not. Make amends, was it?”

“Yes, pretty much. What did it say again...” she said as she read through her notes, “Ah yes, yeah, right. Undo your guilt, solve the problem, things like that. It looks like what the muggles call psychology, if you ask me. I'm rather skeptical about what they do with it for now, but it has some interesting concepts. For one, there's the idea that what goes on in your dreams is a reflection of how you feel, or something like that, then I guess that would make sense... If you fix the problem in your life, it should also fix your dreams. That would be my best bet anyway, since no book described the exact symptoms you had; I would say that the combination of strongly repressed feelings and great power just... did not mix well.”

Percival hummed in agreement. That did not give them much specificity on what to do next, but it was a start. Eager to drop the subject of repressed emotions, he asked:  
“I've been wondering, really... What exactly are you? You're not just a simple seer, are you?” Percival asked, feeling tension set in his jaw and fingers.  
   
Her head propped on an elbow, face almost against the vibrating window, she looked at him. “Heh. I suppose I have been some other things, and I will be some others after as well. But I do work as a seer at the moment.”  
   
“You're eluding the question.”  
   
“I could say the same. You never told me of the man in your dreams, even though he obviously is of some importance.”  
   
“You didn't ask that question before.”  
   
“See, yet you're eluding it!” she laughed. “That's a truth you can't tell, isn't it? Just like mine. I've seen how you look at me – I'm a curious thing to you, and you wish to figure me out. But you won't, just like I probably won't uncover the story that led us there.” She smiled in a way that made him think that she saw it as a challenge.  
   
He thought about it. “I think there's a difference between us, though.”  
   
“Oh? What would that be?”  
   
“The thing that keeps you from talking, is not guilt like it is from me. What is it?”  
   
She stared at him wide-eyed and muttered something about “learning so fast”, before smiling again and answering, “I would say it is... Duty. Or something similar. My silence ensures me a few things... including a relative safety.”  
   
His brows went down into a frown. “Are you in danger?”  
   
“I don't know. Are you?”  
   
“Hah. I guess that's fair. So, your secrecy is your safety. Yes, I suppose I can understand that.”  
   
“That is what you do too, isn't it? You have people tracking you down, though you don't fear them here. They're far away – in America, I presume.”  
   
His frown deepened to the point he squinted with a threatening air. “Why are you telling me this?”  
   
Her nonchalant smile vanished. “To gauge your reaction. Your name isn't Horace Valentine, it's Percival Graves. You were an eminent member of MACUSA, at the head of a team who was after Grindelwald last year. Whatever happened with that Obscurial costed you your job, so it must have been big. It forced you to leave New York. Now, did anything notable happen in New York lately? Surely what the muggles called “electrical storms” and the wizards “beast on rampage” could be one and the same if you supposed it to be an Obscurial. Now, I don't think an Obscurial could do the kind of damage that was described in the news, but you did say that Credence Barebone was an adult. An adult Obscurial. Who knows what kind of power he might have?”  
She paused for just a fraction of second, barely letting her words sink in and seemingly unable to stop. Before he could reply anything, she continued, “That Obscurial was reported dead. One would assume that you killed him and that's where the guilt is coming from, but if you had, you wouldn't have lost your job. So you probably led him to it, while not wanting him dead – as far as you're concerned, it was accidental. It's not your fault, you didn't do anything wrong, that's what you tell yourself. You're certain of your good intentions and can't live with the possibility that you did something wrong, so you repressed all your guilt and it all went into your dreams. Eventually it became unbearable, because that's what repressed emotions do, and you came to me seeking help, but you're still reluctant to admit to any wrongdoing.”  
She brutally went still and silent, looking a little winded as the intensity left her face. “That's – That's more than I wanted to say, um.”  
   
Percival's face had grown pale. He was like an object brought to incandescence; his clenched fists had turned his knuckles white and his eyes threw knives.  
“Alright,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “That is enough.”  
And he apparated.  
   
She bounced on her feet. “Shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes Were Made
> 
> edit 08/11/18: college and work are holdin me up Big Time. send motivating messages for faster updates, cuz im withering out there

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thank you so much for reading!
> 
> this fic is already written for the most part (but not edited, though that takes a lot less time!), and i should post somewhat regularly (every week or so). I accept constructive criticism. 
> 
> you can find me on twitter and tumblr @tasmirk!


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